


Wasted Daylight

by skuldchan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-16
Updated: 2010-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skuldchan/pseuds/skuldchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wakes up next to Sherlock in the morning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasted Daylight

John was accustomed to waking up early in the mornings, and this morning provided no exception to the usual rule. He turned his head toward the windows and its thick curtains, which spilled some gray, clouded daylight into the bedroom. He debated whether or not to get up, to put his clothes on, walk into the kitchen and put the kettle on, like it was any other day. Or maybe, he figured, he ought to roll back over again, throw the covers over his head and go back to sleep. It was a Sunday morning after all, nowhere pressing he had to be.

He ended up in indecision, sandwiched in that awkward space between the two choices, a half-hearted compromise. He set the covers aside, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. The floorboards under his feet creaked beneath his weight as he groped for his undergarments and put them on. He slid open the curtains slightly, enough to get a glimpse into the street below him, not enough to flood the room. The little change was detectable nonetheless, as was probably the protesting of the old wooden floors, and the other body in the bed that John had tried not to wake stirred. A head full of dark curls turned towards the morning peeking in through the windows and immediately turned away again.

"John," said Sherlock in a protest, a childish petulance coloring the deep timbre of his voice. John Watson made no move, so Sherlock rolled onto his stomach and stuffed his face defiantly into the pillow. "What time is it?"

"About seven-thirty."

Sherlock let out a muffled groan. He moved his arm, trying to maneuver the pillow so it blocked out as much light as possible. Then, he lay still again.

John went back to the bed and stretched out on his side, resting an elbow on the mattress to prop himself up. Silently, he studied the curve of Sherlock's back, the protrusion of his scapula, the pale skin that stretched over muscle and bone. Sherlock back was smooth, covered only in thin, barely discernible hairs. There were small moles too, concentrated dots of melanin, scattered sparsely across his flesh that seemed to serve as landmarks, points of interest on the map of his otherwise fair skin.

He wanted to close his eyes, to sling an arm around that thin waist, bury his nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck like he just did for the first time last night. He wanted the curly hairs at the nape of Sherlock's neck to tickle his cheek, he wanted to take a breath and smell just Sherlock and nothing else. He would have liked to press his lips to Sherlock's sternocleidomastoid and remember the way that the light cast shadows into its contours when Sherlock had been on his knees, his head turned to gaze behind him, his mouth open slightly to catch his breath.

"Staring."

"Hm, sorry, what?" John startled, realizing that he had been fantasizing about what he and Sherlock had done together, just a few hours ago.

"You're staring at me," says Sherlock. He surfaces from his pillow long enough to talk. "I can't sleep if you're staring at me. Close the curtains, and go back to sleep."

John considered his options.

"Or get up and do your morning routine thing. Just pick one and stick with it." Sherlock emphasized his point by burrowing back into his pillow.

John smiled. Of course Sherlock would be the only person he'd slept with who didn't kick him out of bed or cuddle the first morning after, but grumped at him instead. Somehow, he couldn't envision any other response from the world's first and only consulting detective.

Lazily, John rose and snapped the curtains shut. He lifted the covers and slid back into bed, cozying right up against Sherlock's back. He let his arm flop across Sherlock's waist, and pressed a kiss against his shoulder.

"Picked one," he whispered. "Sticking with it."

There was no verbal response from Sherlock, but John felt him smile, that rare little smirk of contentment that he'd only seen when Sherlock was immersed in a case. And there were also the fingers that twined between his, drawing his arm further around Sherlock's side, with an easy, reassuring squeeze.


End file.
